“Every single thing in the world that was made by anyone started with an idea. So to catch one that is powerful enough to fall in love with, it is one of the most beautiful experiences. It's like being jolted with electricity and knowledge at the same time.” –David Lynch

Last Thursday, we learned that we had lost David Lynch from our mortal coil. One of the most well-known and beloved filmmakers working today, Lynch’s impact on the visual arts is unmeasurable. As a way of tribute, we at MovieJawn offer our own creativity as a memorial to this beautiful dreamer.

There has always been something ethereal about David Lynch. Perhaps that is the reason that I never thought much about him leaving this mortal plane. For all of the darkness he exposes in his films, there is still the air of whimsy that was very much tied to his personality as a whole. Many of us have dreaded the approach of 2025 for various reasons, and the year is that much darker without David’s physical presence, but, if anything, his work is a permanent reminder about life. It is full of dark and light and even in the darkest times there is something to find beauty and hope in. David found beauty in the mundane, the simple, the everyday, and moving forward that is the best we can do to remain tender and heart centered in a world that often invites us to harden and recoil. David reminds me that being present, being connected, and being warm even through the hardest of times is still possible. Life is cyclical, much like the moon that David connected with. There is death but there is rebirth and from the ashes of destruction there is creation. His life and work have inspired many, and will continue to inspire more, making him forever present even in his absence. –Tori Potenza

One of the things that was so captivating about David Lynch was that he was my favorite artists’ favorite artist, so he didn’t just show up in the movies of his I watched: he was everywhere. He singspoke on the album Dark Night of the Soul—twice, in fact—by Danger Mouse and Sparklehorse; he was weirdly, lovingly referenced in Simpsons episodes; lightly lampooned in "Twin Beaks” from the Sesame Street bit Monsterpiece Theatre. His presence looms large over The Eraserhood, a fast-gentrifying part of North Philly containing my beloved local music and movie venue PhilaMOCA (the Philadelphia Mausoleum of Contemporary Art). His genius pervaded other people’s art, became a part of their art. Even when I wasn’t trying to absorb his artistic spirit, it was everywhere I looked. He’ll always be FBI Regional Bureau Chief Gordon Cole to me, and at least I’ll always be able to visit him in Twin Peaks. –Joe Carlough

David Lynch enters the world of Twin Peaks, which is very much his vision even as he made it real by bringing so many others into it. He crosses over to that world as Gordon Cole, but he’s always also David Lynch. Plenty of directors succumb to the temptation to walk onto their storyworlds and chew scenery or push people around. Lynch certainly chews scenery as Gordon Cole, and maybe he does some on-screen direction as a supervising investigator, but he’s not there to throw his weight around. He’s there to marvel at the world he made with others. His obvious pleasure is the pleasure of being in the company of other characters, and to be an actor among some of his favorite actors. Lynch had already taken us to Twin Peaks, and when Gordon Cole arrives, we go even deeper into the fantasy and the reality of Twin Peaks. We get both, which is worth repeating. David Lynch always gives us the fantasy and the reality, and reminds us that the world is both of these. Twin Peaks is no more or less real than anywhere else. We make the world every day, and as Lynch reminded us, it doesn’t make any more sense than the pleasure we take at odd moments when we experience the details and texture of an artwork. When Gordon Cole returned in The Return, Lynch participated in the gift exchange the cast gave us. They kept their promise, saw us again in 25 years, each of which left their beauty marks on all those faces. And we’ll keep going back to Twin Peaks for as many years as we have left to us. Now and again, David Lynch walks on. –J †Johnson

Art and storytelling are pretty much the only thing I want to do in my life. Like most writers and filmmakers, there are a handful of artists that inspire me and inform me in the way I express my art. But none are as special and unique as the great David Lynch. When talking about David Lynch and his body of work, obviously he’s known for his macabre and surrealist films. They often deal in the darker realms of the universe, a world where dreams and reality are strung together in a thin line. When indulging in the worlds Lynch had built, we often find ourselves questioning what we’re witnessing. And in this modern age of internet and endless access to.. everything, people have made videos, essays, and think pieces on what Lynch’s films and stories mean. You’d see “Mulholland Dr. Ending Explained!” or “Eraserhead Full Explanation” on YouTube. And yet the thing is, to me, what makes Lynch and his stories so special is that I don’t want to have it explained to me. To quote his own words: “The film is the talking.”

The beauty of film is that we, the audience, hold the key in interpreting what we have just indulged. For me, every time I enter the worlds of David Lynch, there’s always this cosmic feeling that takes over me. I’m transported into this dream where the line between fantasy, horror, and sometimes drama is incredibly thin. The way Lynch uses the medium of filmmaking is unlike any other filmmakers. The traditional blend of sight and sound is utilized in a specific methodical way that I don’t think we’ll ever figure out how to describe, which is why we have a word for it: Lynchian.

It’s easy to say that his films and series are “confusing” or “it doesn’t make any sense”, but for me, experiencing his work of art always feel like gazing into the stars, questioning my place in the universe, and it’s always a reminder that everything in this world is temporary. Now with his death, that reminder hits me again. The uncertainty of life follows me everywhere I go, and that’s often how I feel watching his movies. But the odd thing about it, that feeling doesn’t terrify me, it inspires me. While films can be about good vs evil, black and white, Lynch chooses to hold our hands and explore his mind. We get a glimpse as to how he sees the world and the people in it. No matter how bleak and grim his stories usually are, there’s a beauty in them that I don’t think any of us will ever understand fully. But we’re not meant to understand them. What inspires me the most about the late filmmaker is that he always stayed true to his vision. So what does David Lynch mean to me? The cheesy answer is; everything. –Shah!

David Lynch is a filmmaker whose work is so finely ingrained into the collective consciousness that generations of film lovers to this day will refer to any whiff of surreality in a piece of storytelling as “Lynchian.” Through the fluid reality of his world he examined the dark rot gnawing beneath the surface of everyday Americana, from the dark secrets at the heart of every small town, to the insecurities and possessiveness that gnaw away at our relationships, until the ones we loved most are nothing but strangers and abstractions, and our own faces take on the shape of the monsters we struggle to name. When you watch one of his films, you understand it on an emotional level first, and a narrative level second. And even after numerous rewatches, there’s always dark edges of mystery that still lie beyond solute understanding. Lynch always knew that was where the real fun was for both the artist and the audience, where the real talking happened, which is why he rarely discussed the “meaning” of his films in interviews, and God bless him for it.

Lynch also proved to us that an artist willing to explore the dark and the bizarre doesn’t have to allow those emotions to rule their life. As a public figure, he was as well known (and beloved) for his disarmingly chipper demeanor and spiritually rich worldview. He taught us to be open to all the strange possibilities life has to offer. To me, David Lynch will always be the man who inspired me, along with countless others, to embrace our the strange and beautiful mysteries within ourselves, in order to better understand the absurdity of life as we know it, warts and all. And for years to come, whenever we encounter that strangeness, and feel compelled to put it to words, we’ll probably refer to it as “Lynchian.” –Christopher La Vigna

Amid the flood of clips and quotes and interviews that have appeared online since David Lynch’s death, one has stuck with me for days. Lynch sits facing a screen playing a clip from It’s a Wonderful Life. When it ends, and he comments on the film, there are tears in his eyes. All he wants to talk about is how fantastic it is, down to a specific line reading of “Mary” by Jimmy Stewart. It’s a striking and beautiful reminder of how much pure feeling was in Lynch’s work. Sometimes inscrutable but never ironic or detached, Lynch was one of our most earnest filmmakers. He wasn’t fearless; rather, he embraced and welcomed fear. And pain. And love. And every other feeling a human is capable of having. He was and will remain a singular force in American cinema, beloved because he taught us how to dig deep, find the big ideas, catch the big fish. His body is no longer with us, but as he said himself, “It’s a continuum, and we’re all going to be fine at the end of the story.” –Kate Beach

"It's good for the artist to understand conflict and stress. Those things can give you ideas. But I guarantee you, if you have enough stress, you won't be able to create. And if you have enough conflict, it will just get in the way of your creativity. You can understand conflict, but you don't have to live in it."

David Lynch is an artist whose works I admittedly was not immediately in love with. My love for his art came slowly, building over time. His films always seemed to find me at the most important moments. Stumbling across Twin Peaks clips while scrolling on Tumblr as a teenager. Feeling safe under the watchful eye of the Eraserhead mural that lived on the side of PhilaMOCA (where I spent every Monday night my first year of living in Philadelphia). Watching Mulholland Dr. in my friend’s basement the night before moving to L.A. for the best (and simultaneously worst) summer of my life. Just to name a few. It all kind of built into a deep appreciation for everything he set out to express. I consider myself a devoted fan at this point (I have a Blue Velvet tattoo to prove it), and I can only hope to emulate a fraction of the beauty and turmoil he captured in his work in mine. Thank you, Mr. Lynch. <3 –Shayna Davis

I illustrated a small tribute to the video from “Falling,” as David Lynch, Julee Cruise, and Angelo Badalamenti, have now all left us. –**Erik J. Kreffel**

Realism is overrated in cinema, and no one understood this so well as David Lynch. Through his training in visual art and collaboration with fellow greats from the music and performance worlds, his films utilise colour, symbolism, melodrama, and flights of fancy to plumb the depths of human evil and celebrate true love – what keeps this world moving. The performances he coached out of his actors are not exaggerated; they are the only logical and truthful responses, delivered with immense heart and no self-censorship, to the disintegration of safety, society, relationships, the nuclear family, and perhaps even the fabric of the universe. He was so keenly attuned to the suffering of women at the hands of a patriarchal society, and the picket fence WASP suburb became a place of nightmares though Lynch’s camera, bringing to the surface the lies and hypocrisies of a settler nation that pretends at hegemony. But through the terror and the weird, he always returns to joy and delight: at a cup of coffee, a snakeskin jacket, small acts of kindness, or a robin. Few artists have seen the United States and the American continent with clarity, generosity, honesty, and imagination. –Carmen Paddock

David Lynch was my cinematic come-to-jesus moment. I've written about it for MJ before, but I was getting into filmmaking via the Quentin Tarantinos and Kevin Smiths of the era, whose filmographies and careers were accessible in both a real sense-- you could find copies to rent or buy anywhere-- and an intellectual one-- they made movies set in recognizable worlds and influenced by popular culture. And I began to hear about David Lynch. Everyone was so excited to ask me if I had seen any David Lynch yet. And I hadn't. Until Mulholland Dr. I left that film completely baffled. I was in high school, had never had a film class, and wouldn't have an internet-compatible computer for another 5 years or more.

I was, to put it mildly, unfamiliar with the concept of deciphering a work. Movies were about what they were about; subtext was shallow if it was present at all. Comparatively, Mulholland Dr. might as well have been delivered into my mind from the moon, backwards.

Everyone knew I was going to see it too, so I received many calls throughout the week from friends and family who wanted to ask me what I thought, and that was what did it. A week of explaining to people what the movie was about and why it "made no sense", being forced to think about it over and over, finally led me to some modicum of understanding. It hit me in a very intimate, emotional way–which in hindsight I realize I was avoiding thinking about–and suddenly, and forever after, art was changed for me.

In the wake of his passing, I've seen some Netflix CEO saying that they were working on something together, but obviously that will never materialize in a finished form if at all. It makes me very angry. We should have had so much more David Lynch. His filmography should only have been limited by his interest. Hollywood should have backed dump trucks full of money and Cokes into his driveway every year on principle. He should never have had to pitch any goddamn thing. There are so few true originals, and the fact that some of them don't get to work because of how commerce interacts with (read: fucks) art is an actual crime.

But. I don't want David Lynch's passing to bring any more anger into the world, especially not from me. After all, we DO have many works to experience, and they're all pretty easily accessible. As the man himself said: "Keep your eye on the doughnut, not on the hole." Goodbye, David Lynch, and thank you for everything.–“Doc” Hunter Bush

“People are frightened by what they don't understand”

David Lynch entered my life early in my journey with film, probably too early to realize just how special his work was. I think I was still figuring out what I wanted from movies when I first encountered his strange worlds. At that time (and honestly still), I didn’t have the full vocabulary or experience to truly grasp the depth of what he was doing, but even then, there was something undeniable about his work. I had no words for it, but it was something I could feel—something that stirred my imagination and made me look at film in an entirely new way. Over the years, I’ve come to realize how much his films fundamentally shifted the way I approach watching movies today.

Lynch taught me that film isn’t just about what’s on the surface. It’s about the atmosphere, the feelings, the textures—the intangible elements that you can't always explain but that resonate deeply. It’s never about trying to deconstruct every detail to uncover a neat and tidy meaning. It’s about experiencing the film for what it is in that moment. I see film as a space to explore ambiguity, to embrace things that don’t make sense, and to challenge myself to feel rather than understand.

As I reflect on his death, I feel a deep sense of gratitude for how his work changed my perspective on art and storytelling. His films weren’t just puzzles to be solved; they were worlds to inhabit, strange and beautiful in their own right. I also feel a deep sadness: Lynch’s kindness toward Otherness—his willingness to make space for the strange, the unfamiliar, the things that society often marginalizes—was so powerful in his work, and I truly don’t think we’re anywhere near experiencing another director who cares so much about humanity. He never treated his characters, particularly those on the fringes, as objects of ridicule or fear. Instead, he humanized them, showing their depth, vulnerability, and beauty, even in the most surreal and unsettling moments. “The stream flows, the wind blows, the cloud fleets, the heart beats. Nothing will die.”–Billie Anderson

I came late to my love for David Lynch. In my early twenties, I tried repeatedly to get into Twin Peaks only to drop off a couple of episodes in. I loved Blue Velvet but couldn’t get into Mulholland Dr. when I tried to watch it on my tiny laptop in my basement apartment.

Despite having only dipped a toe into his filmography, I thought I understood what his deal was—strange characters, uncanny dialogue, surreal Americana, and an atmosphere of sinister truths buried under small-town charm. I thought that David Lynch was all style over substance, making freaky art for freaky art’s sake.

This year, as I began to dig into his work, I was thrilled to learn that I was very, very wrong. When I finally watched Twin Peaks, including Fire Walk with Me and The Return, I realized that David Lynch is—in addition to being a stylish and artistic image-maker—a fearless and loving investigator of the most extreme human emotions. Nothing in his work is chilly, cool, or detached; it is—in the melodramatic tradition—passionate, hot-blooded.

Two performances in the Twin Peaks universe encapsulate Lynch’s unflinching emotional honesty. The first is Grace Zabriskie as Sarah Palmer. From her wounded animal cries the moment she learns of her daughter’s death to her unbearable loneliness in The Return, David Lynch asks us to sit with Sarah’s unrelenting grief, as uncomfortable as it may make us. Even when—spoiler alert!—Sarah opens up her face and tears a man’s throat open, Lynch is not just trying to scare or provoke his audience. The shocking violence of that scene is born out of Sarah’s inescapable pain.

The second performance is, of course, Sheryl Lee as Laura Palmer. Maybe it’s an exaggeration to say, but I suspect that Twin Peaks would not stand the test of time if Lee’s performance didn’t so radically transcend the detective show trope of the beautiful but troubled dead girl. Throughout the series, but especially in Fire Walk with Me, Lynch and Lee’s refusal to simplify, sweeten, soften, or glamorize Laura’s life and death allows us to see her in all her terrifying complexity. Lee fearlessly embodied Laura’s contradictory desires and harrowing pain, and Lynch made sure that we wouldn’t look away. He knew that any teenage girl could contain universes of darkness, humor, wit, and hurt. He asked us to look at the irresolvable tragedy of Laura not to torture us, or her, but out of genuine care for the character he and Lee created together. He reminded us that looking is an act of love. –Christine Freije

As a Brit growing up in middle England, I had a fascination and love for all things America. I loved Americana–Route 66, 50s diners, coffee and pie, and American suburbia. I loved films and TV shows that scratched away at the veneer of white-picket-fence perfection, like 1998’s Pleasantville and the 2000s Desperate Housewives series starring Teri Hatcher. But of course, before these films/shows, one man–who shared my sincere love of Americana–had already begun exposing the perversions, corruption, violence, and weird compulsions that existed underneath small-town America in the likes of Blue Velvet and of course his masterpiece, Twin Peaks. Although I was very much aware of Twin Peaks when it first aired in the early ‘90s, I was too young to get grips with it, and instead got really into a show with a similar setting, and with its own brand of weirdness, Northern Exposure.

So, it wasn’t until I was an adult that I properly started to watch and appreciate Lynch’s work. I don’t think I even saw Mulholland Dr. when it was released in my early 20s. But now that I’m older (and achieved my lifelong dream of moving to America)–and have explored a lot more noir, neo-noir, and LA-set movies–I can fully embrace everything that Mulholland Dr. is doing. I have seen Elephant Man, Blue Velvet, Wild at Heart, Fire Walk with Me, and Lost Highway. But I still have a few of Lynch’s movies left to watch, and crucially–I need to do a proper Twin Peaks run-through–from start to finish. This has been high on my ‘To Do’ List for years, and now with Lynch’s passing, it looks like 2025 will finally be the year that I tick this off.

Even though I was aware that Lynch was ill, the news of his death still came as a massive shock. Because he generously communicated with us–via his weather reports, and via social media, and was still making weird shit like What Did Jack Do?–it felt like he was still very much still kicking around and creating art. In the present tense. So the finality of his death has really hit me, way more than I thought it would, to be honest. But seeing the outpouring of love from his fans online and at places like Bob’s Big Boy has made me really emotional, and has been a very welcome distraction from the world being on fire for the last week or so.

I wasn’t planning on writing so much, but one last, important, point about Lynch is that he had AMAZING taste in women. Lynch’s muses–Isabella Rossellini, Laura Dern, Laura Harring, Naomi Watts, Patricia Arquette, and all the Twin Peaks babes: Sheryl Lee, Sherilyn Fenn, Lara Flynn Boyle, Madchen Amick–are all stunningly beautiful, and he used them so, so, incredibly well. I will always return to one of my favorite photos, taken by Helmut Newton, of Lynch with his hand delicately wrapped around Rossellini’s neck, more in reverence than with any attempt to control. Lynch seemed to have huge empathy for women and wanted them to be able to be fully seen in his work, expressing themselves, without him imposing anything onto them. Lynch wasn’t a man of words, he was a man of dreams, and he gave his actors such limitless canvases to play around in. And what a void he leaves behind. –Fiona Underhill

I first encountered David Lynch’s weather report on July 10th, 2022. I didn’t know what to expect from the thumbnail depicting the sunglasses-wearing filmmaker. David Lynch was someone who I was aware of but whose films I was scared to watch. Until then, I don’t think I even knew what he looked like. Out of curiosity, I clicked.

“Here in LA, a beautiful sunny morning, very still right now. 64 degrees Fahrenheit, about 18 Celsius.” After giving a summary of the day’s weather, he shared that he was going to be getting a free popcorn and hot coffee, before mentioning his weekend project, what he referred to as “fun work.”

“Today I’m going to be working with wood, clay, and… resin... Possibly glue.” Did anyone ever find out what he was making? Because I have no idea.

Even as he signed off, I didn’t know what to make of what I’d seen. It seemed out of the blue with no reason behind it. I didn’t know at the time that Lynch had posted weather reports online going back over a decade and had recently returned to the practice during the pandemic.

After that initial video, I enjoyed seeing more of them as they were posted each day. At the end of a week, he would celebrate. “If yooouuuuu caaan beeeliiieeve it, it’s Friday once again!” His delivery amused me in its quirkiness, but also in how he at times reminded me of older relatives in his turn of phrase, the slightly angled camera. I found a little bit of joy in watching these daily videos for a while.

Exploring earlier pandemic weather reports, I found that his style had evolved from the camera being positioned farther away from him to the close-up shot I was familiar with (though the backdrop continued not to indicate any difference in the weather that as he described it day to day). And he only started wearing sunglasses on August 21st, 2020 (“because I’m seeing the future and it’s looking very bright”).

In a comment on an early weather report reads a comment stating, “This is the first David Lynch film I've ever understood.” But even in their simplicity, as I’ve looked back on the weather reports I’ve wondered about whether I fully understand them and why I enjoy watching them. I live nowhere near Los Angeles and the weather there has no bearing on my day-to-day plans. Maybe it’s just a human desire to hear about another person’s existence, the songs on their mind, what they are looking forward to and currently enjoying – such as a delicious apple (11/29/20).

I also don’t know for certain why he made these weather reports. Some have speculated they make fun of the fact that California weather is rather unvaried. But even though they were sometimes serious, such as videos where Lynch speaks out against Vladimir Putin’s war on Ukraine, they usually seemed to be just for fun, or just to simply share. Sometimes all we need is someone to talk to us about how lovely the weather will be today, “beautiful blue skies and golden sunshine all along the way,” and to simply say, “Everyone, have a great day!” –Katharine Mussellam

"Her smile was to say it was okay to cry"

David Lynch is my favourite artist to ever exist in any galaxy, ever. His films, his writing, his music, his art–I adore it all. It's a new and unusual feeling (for me) to feel so gutted over the death of a person I have never met. I truly have never felt this way before. But when thinking about the treasures in the work he has left us, the two most precious qualities I have seen reflected are patience and empathy.

To quote the man himself, "who gives a fucking shit how long a scene is?" Remember when folks were annoyed by that extended scene in The Return (2017) that showed a guy sweeping the floor at the Roadhouse? I cherish it. Taking time to be present with the mundane is beautiful. Why are we seemingly always in such a frantic rush or feel that we must have all our questions answered? Patience and presence are absolutely necessary for me to care for my mental health. If I spent my whole life just yearning for the next big thing or fixating on the purpose of it all, I would rob myself of the very human experience of simply being - letting things unfold and allowing ourselves to enjoy or grow through the unknown, even when it is scary or painful. When we can be patient with ourselves, it extends to others and our empathy naturally grows. I think the most beautiful and concise depiction of this can be found in my very favourite episode of Twin Peaks, season 2 episode 1: “May The Giant Be With You.”

Cooper's patience with the waiter, even as he lies bleeding, makes me cry. The scene between Norma and Shelley at the hospital makes me cry. The scene between Major Garland Briggs and his son Bobby makes me cry. The scene where Donna's sister Harriet reads her poem about my beloved guardian angel Laura Palmer (quoted above) makes me cry. Of course, there are scenes of horror in between, just like life, but what I remember is the patience and the empathy–the interchange of human connection. Being there for each other is so important, especially now. We can't possibly know the future or have all the answers. But that's okay. Having patience with ourselves and with others, listening, and acting with empathy is something we are all capable of, even if we don't have a penny. And it makes so much more of an impact than we could ever imagine. That's what I believe, and that's what I see so clearly reflected in the beautiful work made by this beautiful human. I love you always, David. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go listen to “GHOST OF LOVE” for the 400th time. –Ashley Jane Davis

Last year, I watched all of David Lynch’s works in order. Hypnotized by everything I’d seen so far, it was time for the full Lynch. I’m no closer to solving any puzzles, but my life is richer having spent so much time in his dreams, with the characters that maybe the world couldn’t love and respect, but he always could. David Lynch, thank you for everything. You were the closest thing we had to a magician; a goofy, meditative champion of artists who drew your magic from a sincere appreciation of the world in all its beauty and its darkness. –Allie Lembo

When I was a sophomore in college, I got a wild haircut and decided to try and start a cult film club with my friend Lindsay. As it turned out, there was far more demand than we expected. I remember that first meeting, we squeezed everyone around the conference table we were renting out of the student union and compiled a watchlist. When the interest meeting concluded, the most repeated director on the list by far was David Lynch.

One of our very first screenings was Eraserhead which honestly left me wondering whether I was cut out to run the club at all. Soon after, due to Lindsay’s persuading, I began working my way through Twin Peaks episodes on my dorm room futon in between classes. Another week or two passed and, much to my dismay, our vote landed on Dune. That was when I found myself shifting from president to dictator when I enforced a moratorium on anything Lynchian.

I’m ashamed now that I once resisted his influence, but I had started the club to explore as many films and directors as possible. What was it about this man that had everyone so enraptured? I was yet to see it. After a month or two, I finally conceded and allowed for a Mulholland Dr. screening. If there was a David Lynch movie that converted me— and there would be many— that was the turning point.

From there on, I stopped shying away from the dark, uncomfortable parts of his worlds and allowed myself to start sitting with them instead. Pretty soon, that openness translated to my real life and brought me unexpected friends–buying me social capital with my boyfriend’s inner circle, easing pandemic woes via virtual Twin Peaks watch parties with co-workers, and, of course, the Cult Classic Club screenings that started it all.

His movies have shown me that the key to traversing those dark places is to take someone else along for the ride. Despite the initial fight I put up, there’s nothing quite like a David Lynch movie to bond you to another human. When the lights come on and the quizzical gazes start melting away during the discussion, one thing always becomes clear: we don’t have all the answers but David says that’s okay.–-Matt Crump

I will be the first to admit that I don’t know that I fully “get” David Lynch. I might be too mainstream in my taste, or just not askew enough to connect with his work emotionally. Too square. His Dune remains the best adaptation of Frank Herbert’s work in film/television, and it is a film I return to over and over again with more and more appreciation. For his work set on planets a lot closer to home than Arrakis, Fire Walk With Me gave me recurring nightmares for a month after I saw it. Lost Highway is the one that speaks to me the most, maybe because of the soundtrack, or the hypnotic shots of driving along roads at night. Either way, Lynch’s work refracts the world around us to point out all the little ways things don’t actually make sense on a day-to-day basis, and our innate sense of cause and effect is often wrong when it comes to the choices that other people make. Lynch tells us the world is inscrutable as a better way to actually understand it. His work exists for the liminal spaces of our minds, the transition between awake and sleep. Radiohead’s “Videotape” reminds me of Lynch’s work, because of the innate sadness and hopefulness of speaking to loved ones from beyond the gave, from a goodbye videotape. “This is my way of saying goodbye, 'Cause I can't do it face to face, I'm talking to you before. No matter what happens now, You shouldn't be afraid, Because I know today has been, The most perfect day I've ever seen.” –Ryan Silberstein

A couple of years ago I wrote a whole thing about how David Lynch’s Mulholland Dr. exists as the inciting incident in my love of movies, and it makes sense that when a coworker said, “Oh, no, David Lynch died” my response was all of the stages of grief overlapping each other in the span of 30 seconds. “What? No. That can’t be. No. What? No. Nooooo. That’s heartbreaking. No.” I think most of us had similar reactions. Mr. Lynch’s passing is the sort of thing that causes one to recontextualize not just one’s relationship with his work, but his place in the pantheon of directors. Even if you weren’t a David Lynch diehard–present company included–you’d be labeled an absolute fool to ignore his profound impact on cinema. It’s hard to think of someone who spoke with a more singular voice, past, present, or future. There are more technically accomplished directors, sure, but no one was as creative as David Lynch. No one could take the absolutely batshit insane stuff inside their brain and commit it to celluloid with such clarity. Even if you didn’t know what was going on–which was me the first time I watched Mulholland Dr.--there was something undeniable about his work.–Ian Hrabe

I was drawn to David Lynch when I was in high school because his work never looked away from violence or cruelty, and I have always respected an honest artist. Instead of looking away, he examined these topics in excruciatingly painful detail. It was his perspective, his love and spiritual wonderment, that alchemically transmuted these things into something new. He reminded us of what was already there in beautiful, terrifying ways: the unanswerable nature of our lonely, interconnected existence.

I’ve devoted my life to making art like this: art that looks at what’s really there, and gives you something beautiful and new. Disruptive art. Weird art. Words that you take with you because they become a part of you. His on-screen speech to Denise Bryson in Twin Peaks: “And when you became Denise, I told all your colleagues, those clown comics, to fix their hearts or die” still burns in me with its love. I’m a trans man: this hits me in a vulnerable place.

Other people have already said this, but the most wonderful tribute you can make to an artist like David Lynch is to make art: wild, strange, terrifying, ugly, beautiful art. To keep asking questions even when they’re weird and uncomfortable questions to ask. To always keep asking questions.

I haven’t made my way to the Big Boy tribute yet, but I plan on making my way there soon. I wasn’t ready for him to go; I’m still saying goodbye. –M. Lopes da Silva